"Mrs. 'Orkins. Pretend not to know 'er--do! Oh yes, jest you try it on. Aunty's up to yer, she is. She sed yer'd try to do 'er out of 'er money, and want 'er to take fippence instid of tenpence." "Did she? You have come here by her orders, I suppose?" "Yes, I 'ave; to poke out the fire and blow out the candles, and I've done it." "You have," said Aaron, ruefully. "And now, little girl, you will do as _I_ tell you. Put down that poker. Get up. Feel on the mantelshelf for a box of matches. I beg your pardon, you are too short to reach. Here is the box. Take out a match. Strike it. Light the candles. Thank you. Last, but not least, relieve me of this baby with the sticky hands." The small girl snatched the baby from his arms and stood before him in an attitude of defiance. For the first time he had a clear view of her. "Heaven save us!" he cried, falling back in his chair. Her appearance was a sufficient explanation of his astonishment. To say that she was ragged, and dirty, and forlorn, and as utterly unlike a little girl living in civilised society as any little girl could possibly be, would be but a poor description of her. Her face suggested that she had been lying with her head in a coal scuttle; she wore no hat or bonnet; her hair was matted; her frock reached just below her knees, and might have been picked out of a dust-heap; she had no stockings; on her feet were two odd boots, several sizes too large for her and quite worn out, one tied to her ankle with a piece of grey list, the other similarly secured with a piece of knotted twine. Her eyes glittered with preternatural sharpness; her cheek bones stuck out; her elbows were pointed and red; she was all bone--literally all bone; there was not an ounce of flesh upon her, not any part of her body that could be pinched with a sense of satisfaction. But the baby! What a contrast! Her head was round and chubby, and was covered with a mass of light curls; her hands were full of dimples; her face was puffed out with superabundant flesh; the calves of her legs were a picture. In respect of clothes she was no better off than Mrs. Hawkins's niece. "Wot are yer staring at?" demanded the girl. "At you, my child," replied Aaron, with compassion in his voice. "Let's know when yer done," retorted the girl, "and I'll tell yer 'wot I charge for it." "And at baby," added Aaron. "That'll be hextra. Don't say I didn't warn yer." There were conflicting elements in the situation; its humour was undeniable, but it had its pathetic side. Aaron Cohen was swayed now by one emotion, now by another. "So you are Mrs. Hawkins's niece," he said, with a twinkle in his eyes. "Yes, I am. Wot 'ave yer got to say agin it?" "Nothing. Is baby also Mrs. Hawkins's niece, or nephew?" "If you've no objections," said the girl, with excessive politeness, "she's Mrs. Pond's little gal, and I nusses 'er." "I have no objection. What is your name?"